Waiting in Samarra
by StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: With three months left on Dean's contract, the Winchesters find themselves in a small town investigating a case involving the butchering of psychics. There they meet a young psychic woman, who may or may not be the next victim. But she's terrified of something, and maybe it's not the killer that she's scared of...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Rated M for strong language and violence. This story is set in season 3, after** ** _Malleus Maleficarum,_ and shortly before _Dream a Little Dream of Me._**

 **And a huge thank you to gatesmasher, who betaed this, and helped me figure out a change I had to make to the plot.**

 **Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the story. Reviews are always hugely appreciated.**

* * *

 **Waiting in Samarra**

 **Chapter One**

It was a quiet night. Just Rafe and his friends playing pool, and the old man perched on a stool at the bar. A sour smell clung to him, like he only had a couple of years left, but he wasn't so far gone Emma could refuse to pour him glass after glass of bourbon.

And even he was in a morose mood tonight, so she took a break. Sat at the end of the bar and tried to read Agatha Christie's _The Pale Horse_ , but she couldn't concentrate on the words. There was something in the air, and it wasn't the old guy nursing his bourbon and smelling of rancid rotting liver.

 _Something's coming_ , she thought, scanning the bar uneasily. Rafe thought she was looking at him and nodded, flashed her a smile. She barely even noticed.

Nothing different, nothing weird, but even so, she knew. She'd left it too long.

Why had she stayed on in this shithole of a town?

The back of her neck prickled an instant before the door opened.

The guy who came in was dark-skinned, with a youthful face and ancient eyes that glittered in the light. His polished brogues and pinstriped suit probably cost more than she earned in six months, and his focused gaze roamed around the bar, checking every corner and shadow, before finally coming to rest on Emma.

 _Aw, shit._

She'd known something was coming; she just hadn't expected it to be him.

And as he made his slow leisurely way towards her, she knew why he'd come. He stank like garbage left out in the sun. Even his cologne couldn't mask it. He placed a hand on top of the bar, smiling at her. And because his eyes made her dizzy, she stared down at his impeccably manicured fingernails, at the gleaming onyx stone in his cuff link.

"Hello Emma." His voice was West Indies tempered with the cut-glass vowels of the British private school system.

"Hi Jackson," she said. "What can I get you?"

"Scotch. The good stuff. Neat."

"I remember how you take it," she said, and she saw the trace of a smile twitch his lips. Then it was gone. She took a breath, forcing back her nausea and poured him a glass of the best whisky they had. That wasn't saying much.

He knocked it back in one, and his lip curled. "I did say the good stuff."

"That's about as good as it gets 'round here," she said, and he snorted, slid his glass closer. She poured him another. "What are you doing here, Jackson?"

"I'm in trouble, kid." He swirled the amber liquid in the glass.

She shivered. "Vision?"

"Someone's after me, Emma, and I'm not the only one. We're all in danger."

"And by 'we' you mean...?"

"Psychics."

"So you stopped by to warn me. That's sweet. Now fuck off."

He chuckled, quietly and without humour. "If I was just here to warn you, I would have picked up the phone. I respect your privacy, remember?" He set the whisky down and placed his hand flat on the pitted, stained wood of the bar, slid it towards her. She stared at it like it was a snake. "I came to see if I was right."

"Go to hell, Jackson." Her voice was low, weary. Across the room Rafe had stiffened, his eyes narrowed and fixed on Jackson. He didn't look scared, not exactly, but he could tell something was up. He might even be thinking about coming over, and the thought of that made her breath catch in her chest. She forced her expression into a neutral friendly smile. "What the hell good would it do? Not like you can stop it."

"You're forgetting who I am. I'm not as defeatist as you are, Emma. Nothing's set in stone."

"Death is," she said, then shrugged. "In my experience."

He opened his mouth to argue, then sighed. "I'm not saying you might not be right. But we were friends once, weren't we?"

"We weren't anything like friends." But there she went again, lying to herself. Jackson had offered her a safe haven after she'd run away from her bastard of an uncle. Even if it hadn't been entirely without strings. She couldn't trust him an inch, but that didn't mean she didn't like him. And she owed him. She wavered, and he leaned forward, eyes intent.

"You know I wouldn't ask unless I was desperate. Two minutes and I'll be gone from your life. You'll never see me again, I promise you. You want money? Give me your bank details, and I'll–"

Emma gave a bark of laughter. "I don't want your money." She sighed, and leaned forward. Every muscle in her body screamed against it, screamed to keep away from him. This close she could feel the promise of death clinging to him, the air thick and cloying. Her mouth flooded with saliva.

"'Two minutes,'" she repeated, and laughed again without humour. "More like two days. The last time I touched someone by accident, the migraine knocked me out for five hours. I could hardly speak, Jackson. I vomited all over the street. They called a damn ambulance. If I hadn't recovered before they got there..." She trailed off, discomfited. His eyes had filled with concern and she hadn't been expecting that.

"Is it really that bad?"

She picked up his glass of whisky and brought it to her lips. She didn't drink, just inhaled, drawing in the warm smoky smell. "It's that bad."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry."Jackson looked like he was about to say something more, then he shook his head. "At least tell me how long do you think I've got?"

"Best guess?" Emma shrugged. "A day or two. Maybe more, but..."

"But more likely less?"

"Jackson..."

"How much do I owe you, Emma love?"

"For the whisky, nothing. On the house."

He hesitated, glancing at her. "If I'd known I wouldn't have come, Emma. Although I won't lie and say it wasn't good to see you. I'd say you're looking well, but..." His gaze flickered down her body, his eyes tightening with concern.

"You're not a liar?"

"Never to you."

As he turned to go, she drew in a sharp breath. "Jackson, wait." He stopped, turned back to look at her. "I can't do it here," she said, her voice low. "Girl's gotta work. But meet me afterwards. I'll do it tonight. It'll give me some time to sleep it off before my shift tomorrow."

He hesitated, his eyes on her. The thought of him stinking up her apartment with the smell of death turned her stomach, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. And still he looked like he was going to say no. "Emma..." He pressed his lips together. Something like shame flashed in his eyes. "Thank you."

"Do you want me to text you my address?"

The corner of his mouth quirked. "I already know where you live, Emma love." She went still, staring at him, and he shrugged. "I worry about you. So I keep track."

"I'm going to pretend that's not one of the creepiest things I've ever heard," she muttered,

He chuckled, then his composure slipped, as if he was thinking twice. "Are you sure? After what happened to your mother..."

"I owe you, remember," she said, with a tight smile. "Now get the hell out of here. I should be home about midnight."

"I'll be waiting," he said. "And thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she told him. "Not like it'll do you a damn bit of good. What I see, you know you won't be able to change it."

And he glanced back at her, the old arrogant Jackson creeping back into his face. "You should have more faith in me, Emma." He smoothed his elegant fingers over the wool of his jacket.

"And just a heads up that you might want to change your clothes," she said, pointing at him. "Because the chances are I'm going to puke my guts out all over you."

He gave an uneasy laugh, and then he was gone, vanishing back out into the night.

* * *

It was snowing again when she finally locked up the bar. Her thin woollen coat was scant protection against the cold. And even so, she felt too warm, her skin clammy and sweaty underneath her clothes. Her stomach still felt queasy, and she lit up a cigarette. She tasted acrid smoke and hot ashes in her mouth, and thought about the vodka waiting for her at home. Along with Jackson, God help her.

She wrapped an arm tight around her chest, scanning the quiet street. Something itched at the back of her neck. She shivered, started down the street, her steps quick and cautious. She wished she'd never called Jackson back, wished she'd kept her mouth shut and let him walk out of her life. The thought of him waiting for her at home, the stink that was going to hit her when she opened the door, made her falter. And as she passed the mouth of an alley, something shifted in the shadows. The stink of rotting garbage. The rustle of rats. Her legs weakened, and she placed her hand against the brickwork to steady herself. Breathed hard to stop herself from vomiting. She saw the bright flash of headlights as a car drove along Main Street. She slipped her hand into her pocket, closed her fingers around her keys. And as she turned the corner the stink of death slammed into her so hard she fell against the brickwork.

A shape sat slumped at the edge of a circle of light cast by a lamppost. The light shone on a dark-skinned face, the ragged bloody hollows of his eyes. And snow dusting the shoulders of his expensive suit.

Emma staggered backwards, and then she spun around, retching.

 _Oh Christ, Jackson,_ she thought, _I'm so sorry._


	2. Chapter 2

**Waiting in Samarra**

 **Chapter Two**

Aside from Sam and a handful of miserable-looking patrons, the café was empty. Hardly surprising, given its floor was grubby, and the coffee was strong and bitter. But at least it was warm. Outside it was snowing again, and the few people of the town he could see were bundled up against the cold. As Sam waited for Dean to return from the morgue, he studied the scant information he'd been able to glean from the internet about Jackson Grey. There wasn't much more than Missouri Moseley had told them, but it was clear Jackson was the real thing. And powerful too.

Whether there were any other legit psychics in town was another matter, of course.

Dean came in, stamping snow from his boots and loosening his tie. He sank into the booth, gestured to the waitress. "Hey, can I get a coffee? Thanks." He nodded to the laptop. "Find anything?"

"Not much," Sam said. He paused, watching Dean, as the waitress came over with the pot of burnt-tasting coffee.

 _He's looking tired,_ Sam thought. Shadows under his eyes, new lines at the corners which Sam was sure hadn't been there a couple of weeks ago. Too many nights spent in bars, and too much alcohol. Too many women whose names he could barely remember. And nowhere near enough sleep. It seemed like the closer he got to his last day on Earth, the less Dean wanted to rest. Like he didn't want to waste a scrap of time. And still he wouldn't admit that he wanted to fight this. That he was scared.

 _Three months left,_ Sam thought. _Three months left and still we've found nothing._

"Have you called Missouri?" Dean asked.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Why? Are you scared to?"

"Shut up."

Sam grinned. "Yeah, and she doesn't know of any other psychics in the area."

"Small town."

"Yeah. No kidding." Sam glanced out the window, at the street with its boarded-up shops. Just another failing ghost town. After the factories had shut down, almost everyone moved on. "You know what's bothering me? What the hell a powerful psychic like Jackson Grey was doing in a town like this in the first place. What'd you find out?"

"His eyes were gone. Like they'd been scooped out of his head with a melon baller. A surgically precise melon-baller. Whoever did this knew what he was doing."

"Sounds like Missouri was right."

"Well, the woman is psychic. Body was reported anonymously, nothing in his stomach, raised alcohol levels in his bloodstream. Other than that the cops have no idea of who he is, what he was doing in town, how long he's been here or where he's been staying. Our nation's finest right there."

Sam raised his hands. "So we've got..."

"Nothing." Dean took a swallow of coffee and grimaced. "We could totally do with a psychic 'round about now."

* * *

The bar was a dive, the bathrooms in a state Sam didn't want to examine too closely. Best just to zip up and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.

It was a Friday night and the the taste of desperation was thick in the air. Sam stepped out of the bathroom, and fought the urge to roll his eyes when he saw Dean at their table talking to the blonde bartender. She had the weary but tolerant air of a woman who'd spent far too much time chatting to assholes in bars.

He slowed down, not wanting to disturb Dean if he was in with the slightest chance, but as he hesitated she gave a soft little laugh and moved on. The glance she cast over her shoulder managed to be both dismissive and indulgent at the same time.

"Strike out?" Sam asked, sinking down at the table.

"Screw you." Dean lifted the beer bottle to his lips. "I was working."

"Uh huh. Does failing to get the bartender's number count as working these days?"

"Shut up." He took a gulp of beer, tilted the bottle in the direction of the blonde. "Caitlyn wasn't working that night," he said, raising his eyebrows in a see-I-told-you-I-was-working look. "The emo-chick behind the bar was. Her name's Emma. She's an Aquarius and she likes reading Agatha Christie novels. So I'm thinking she's more your type than mine. And she's 'kooky'."

"'Kooky.'"

"That's the word Caitlyn used."

Sam glanced at the dark-haired woman behind the bad. She was chatting to a regular, her body language close and contained. 'Kooky' wasn't the word Sam would have used. _Defensive, maybe,_ he thought. Her skin was pale, her hair choppy with blunt-cut bangs that looked like she cut them herself.

Sam nodded to Dean's beer. "Another?"

As Sam approached the bar she shot a glance at him and he saw her body-language shift, her shoulders drawing up. She was painfully thin, wearing faded black jeans and a long-sleeved top. The kid she was talking to studied her face, then turned and stared at Sam. He was short and skinny, with a shock of dark, glossy curls, and he couldn't have been much older than twenty-one. In the way his features hardened, Sam recognised the clear signs of puppy love.

 _Understandable_ , Sam thought.

She didn't have a beautiful face exactly, but it was an interesting one. Eyes slightly too wide apart, brows thick and dark. The sort of woman you wanted to keep looking at, figure out just what it was about her that caught your attention.

As Sam leaned against the bar, she edged closer, looking like she was willing him to change his mind and turn away. "What can I get you?" she asked, and all the animation had been stripped from her voice. She'd been laughing a few moments ago, and now it was almost like she wanted to vomit.

Sam hesitated, saw the way her gaze flitted over his shoulder to Dean, who was trying to hit on the blonde again. "Two beers."

She nodded, opened and slid two bottles of beer across the bar to him. He paid, noticing her obvious reluctance to handle his money. "Hey, could I ask you some questions?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes lingered on his face, challenging.

"A friend of mine was killed in town a few days ago. Black guy with a British accent, smart dresser..." A flicker of something in her eyes. Beside Sam the kid shifted. "My brother and I, we're trying to figure out what happened to him. Did you see him?"

"You should speak to the cops," she said.

"We did. They don't seem to have any leads."

"Then you should definitely speak to the cops. Sounds like you know more than they do."

"Could you tell me if he was here at least? You were working that night, right?"

Her lips twitched. Her composure was starting to crack. Under her make-up, her pallid skin had a greenish tinge. "Sorry," she said. "Didn't see him." Next to Sam the kid swallowed.

Sam nodded, taking the beers. "Okay, well, never mind. Thanks anyway, I guess."

"You're welcome." He walked away, silence behind him. When he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw the kid look at her. She gave the slightest shake of her head. The tip still lay on the bar like she couldn't bear to touch it.

"Dean, something's up with that bartender."

"You strike out, too?"

"She lied about seeing Jackson. He was here that night, I'm pretty sure. And she's edgy about something. I think she's scared."

"Think she knows something about what we're dealing with?"

As Dean spoke Emma looked up and stared at their table. She met Sam's gaze, then smiled a hard, angry smile. The brothers turned away. "I don't know," Sam said.

"You think a guy like Jackson Grey would be seen dead in a place like this under normal circumstances?" Dean asked. "From what Missouri says, he belonged in New York, drinking $20 dollar cocktails and eating lobster buttered with caviar. Which actually sounds delicious."

"So he was running from something and came here? It's a small town. Good place to hide."

"Or he came here to see someone," Dean said. "And you said it yourself, she lied about him coming here."

Sam risked a glance at Emma. She didn't look like a threat to him; she looked vulnerable, more like a potential victim.

The kid was moving away from the bar now. Sam nudged Dean, nodded to the kid who was walking back to his friends at the pool table. "Maybe there's a way to find out. Come on."

"You were here that night too, huh?" Sam said, as they cornered the kid behind a pillar. His voice was easy, conversational. "You sure you didn't see our friend?"

The kid shifted, his eyes darting away, towards Emma. "No, I didn't see him."

"Are you sure about that?" Sam moved closer. "He was a good guy. He didn't deserve what happened to him."

"I'm sure the cops'll–"

"The cops don't know squat," Dean said. "What did you see? He was here that night, wasn't he?"

"Was he here to see Emma?" Sam asked. The kid's gaze darted towards him, and Sam leaned closer, lowering his voice. "The guy who killed him, we think he could be after her next."

And with that Sam had hooked him. "You mean she might be in danger?"

"I think she could be, yeah."

The kid paused, staring towards the bar, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "Okay," he said finally, lowering his voice. "Yeah, that son of a bitch was here that night. He was talking to Emma, and she looked upset. Trying to hide it, but that's Emma." His eyes softened. "She's pretty tough."

"And you'd never seen him before?" Sam said.

The kid snorted. "Guy like that in a town like this? Hell no."

"What happened?" Dean asked.

"Not much. They talked for a while, then the guy just left. But hey, Emma didn't have anything to do with what happened–"

"Okay, what the hell?" An angry female voice from came from behind them. Emma was staring at them, her eyes dark with fury.

"Shit," the kid said, pushing a hand through his hair. "Emma, I'm sorry. They–"

"Shut up, Rafe. And you two, get the hell out of here. Now."

"We can explain..." Sam said.

"Well, you can do it on your way out the door," she said. "I won't be listening."

It happened so fast. One of the men playing pool stepped back without warning. Panic flared across her face and she twisted away from him so quickly she lost her balance. Dean caught hold of her arm to steady her, and as his fingers grazed the bare skin of her wrist, her eyes flared open. Sam saw her body jolt, saw how she blanked out, just for an instant, her eyes glazing over.

 _She's having a vision,_ he thought, and then she was back, her face filled with terror and pain. She stared up at Dean, her whole body shaking, and then she was tearing at his hands, stumbling away from him.

"Get your hands off me!"

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry. I was just..."

"Don't!" she cried as Dean took a step towards her, his hands held up.

"Emma? You okay?" Caitlyn was staring at them from behind the bar.

Her head twitched that way, but it was as if she couldn't bring herself to look away from Dean; she was staring at him like an animal caught in headlights.

"Hey." Sam drew closer, his voice low and calming. "We're sorry. My brother was only trying to help. Emma? That's your name, right?"

She swallowed, and nodded, barely even glancing in his direction.

"Emma?" Caitlyn called. "You want me to call the cops?"

That brought her back to her senses. She grimaced, pushed a trembling hand through her hair. "No. I... I'm okay." And she flashed Dean a flat, unconvincing smile. "Sorry."

"Okay," Dean muttered as she turned away. "What the hell was that?" He was shaking his fingers like she'd burned him. "Felt like an electric shock when I touched her."

The kid turned to follow Emma, shot them a hard suspicious look over his shoulder.

Sam glanced at her, saw her staring back. She dropped her gaze, and, with what looked like some difficulty, turned her back on them. He could see her shoulders trembling. "She just had a vision, Dean."

Dean groaned. "I guess that tells us why Jackson came here of all places. What do you wanna bet he was looking for her."

"She's terrified."

"You think she could be our next target?"

She glanced their way, and Sam saw all the colour had drained from her face. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and Sam winced, because he remembered those splintering headaches. From the way she was clinging onto the bar, he guessed she was trying not to lose her balance. Caitlyn murmured something to her, and Emma nodded, straightening up.

"She's leaving," Sam said, watching as Emma moved into the back, returned with her coat.

"Okay, you go after her, do your psychic bonding routine," Dean said. He reached for his beer and grimaced. "I guess I'll call Missouri."

* * *

 _Hunters. Fucking hunters._

Emma tried to keep her focus on the keyhole, inserted the key with her trembling hand. Her mouth flooded with saliva, and she wrenched the door open, rushed to the bathroom just in time to heave her guts into the toilet bowl. She coughed, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Focused on the white tiles until the pain spiking through her skull subsided.

She flushed the toilet, and limped back into the bedroom. Gun first, then painkillers, then vodka. Then she could wait for the aftermath of the vision to clear.

And it was a bad one. She was used to migraines, but this felt like her head was splitting apart. Maybe because for once the focus of the vision was her.

She sank down on the bed, and pulled the gun from the drawer of the bedside table, checked it was loaded. Bent over as another wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She kept her breathing steady until it had passed and she felt strong enough to stumble back into the bathroom. She opened the mirrored cabinet, rifled through the clutter for the pack of heavy duty painkillers, and popped one into her mouth, grinding it between her teeth.

Step two done.

Now for the vodka. She pulled away, her eyes filling with tears of pain and frustration and fear. Her mouth still tasted of death, the sour-smelling miasma that had enveloped the two hunters. Especially _him_.

"Vodka," she murmured. "And then..." Then she'd have to think about packing. Something she should have done a long time ago,if she was honest. Even before Jackson had walked back into her life. It was pointless; she knew it was pointless, but still she had to try. She–

She froze. A sound outside in the corridor, the soft tread of feet.

She gave a low moan of terror, shrunk away, her back pressing against the sink.

Had she locked the door? Had she even closed it in her rush to puke? Even through the haze of pain and fear she already knew the answer.

 _You idiot._

She pumped the gun, wincing at how loud it sounded in the quiet of her bathroom. The footsteps stopped. Emma squeezed her eyes shut. _Oh Christ, I'm going to die._

She raised the gun, counted to three, then stepped out of the bathroom, gun raised.

It was the bigger one, the guy with longer hair. The one who didn't stink quite so much of impending death. He was pointing his own gun at her, but that almost didn't register through her relief.

 _It's not him._

"Wait," he said, his voice reassuring. He peeled back his fingers in a 'hold on' gesture. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"You broke into my home, you're pointing a gun at me, and you're not here to hurt me?"

His lips quirked. "I know it's hard to believe, Emma. My name's Sam Winchester..."

"Delightful to meet you. Now get the hell out."

"I will. I just..." He took a breath. "I'm going to put my gun down, okay? I need to talk to you." He lowered his gun, his eyes on her. "You had a vision, right?"

"How the hell did you–" She broke off, eyes narrowing, then gave a bitter laugh. "Oh. Of course. Takes one to know one, right? You're a psychic too."

First Jackson, now this guy. Was there a convention on she didn't know about?

But he put his gun down, placed it on the bedside table and moved away. She hesitated, shifting her hands around her own gun. Finally, she tilted the barrel down so it wasn't quite pointed at him. Not quite away either. He nodded, like that was enough.

"I used to be."

"Right. You're full of shit. Like this is something that just goes away."

He shrugged. There was a darkness in his eyes that suggested there was more going on here than she realised. "With me it did."

"Then you're a lucky bastard." _And a liar._

The trace of a smile, sadness in his eyes. "Not sure I agree with you there, but okay."

She swallowed. Her vision was tunnelling, and she could feel a wave of dizziness rushing towards her at full speed. If she didn't sit down soon she was going to black out. The thought of being vulnerable terrified her, but not as much as blacking out did. _It's not him_ , she thought. _Not him._

Her legs crumpled beneath her and she fell against the wall. Sam Winchester made a move towards her and she flinched. "Don't!"

"I'm just trying to help."

"I know. But please don't touch me. I think if you did my head might actually explode, and I just bought that bedspread." She braced herself against the wall, took a few stumbling steps to the bed and collapsed on top of it. It creaked beneath her weight and she rolled onto her back, stared up at the stains on the ceiling. They seemed to be throbbing with every pulse of blood in her veins. "Hey, Sam Winchester? Could I ask you a favour?"

"Yeah, sure."

"There's some vodka in the eighth circle of hell that passes for a kitchen. Could you pour me some, please?"

And maybe she did black out for a few moments, because the next thing she saw was him leaning over her. She flinched and he held up his hands. "Wasn't gonna touch you."

She exhaled, closing her eyes. The painkillers were starting to kick in; the relentless agony had subsided to a dull throb of pain that skirted the edge of being bearable. She pulled herself up the bed until her shoulders were resting against the headboard. He was watching her with something like concern, and as she glanced toward him he held out a glass of vodka. She took it, careful not to let her fingers brush against his. She knocked it back, felt it streak its burning way down her throat. He poured her another glass and she knocked that back too, drew her knees up and pressed her forehead against them.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"It's not normally this bad," she murmured. Then: "I know what you are. You're hunters, aren't you? You and your friend."

"He's my brother. Was that what you saw in the vision?"

She held the glass out, heard the glug as he poured her another vodka. _Where are your manners, Emma? A guy with a gun breaks into your apartment, least you can do is offer him a drink._

"Get one for yourself if you want it." She stared at him with bleary eyes. "Not the vision. Not exactly. There's a sort of... an aura about you. A miasma."

"A miasma?"

She knocked back the vodka, and coughed a little. For a second, it all threatened to lurch back up her throat. It had been a mistake mixing tablets and vodka on an empty stomach."Not the most flattering word, I know, but it's how I think of it. You both stink of death. Especially him."

That earned her a sharp look. She'd hit a nerve there. "Why especially him?" he asked.

Emma hesitated. She still wasn't thinking started to creep back in. What the hell was she doing, sitting on her bed, woozy with drugs and alcohol and the aftershock of seeing herself die, chatting with a strange man? A killer.

"It's okay," he said. He was trying to sound soothing, but there was no disguising the note of urgency that had crept into his voice. Every muscle in his not inconsiderable body was bunched and taut. Big guy like this, he could snap her neck like a twig if he wanted to. "I promise I'm not going to hurt you. Please, what did you see? Did you see my brother die?"

"No." She dropped her head back against the headboard and closed her eyes. What was the point of fighting it? "I saw my own death. Your brother? He's going to murder me."

* * *

 **A/N: Well, that's chapter two. After this I'm probably going to post chapters on a weekly basis. All comments are hugely appreciated, including constructive criticism.**

 **Thanks for reading.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you to everyone for reading. All comments are hugely appreciated.**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

When Dean called, Sam answered, aware of Emma's weary eyes watching him. She'd moved from the bed to the table, slumped in the chair with the bottle of vodka in front of her. She was still pale, but starting to recover.

"How's Cassandra?"

"She's recovering."

"Well, Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Although for a pissy emo-chick she was sort of hot."

"Helpful, Dean. Thanks. Head back to the motel. I'll meet you there."

He hung up and turned back to the table. "That code?" Emma asked.

"Yeah, it is actually. It's code for 'go back to the motel and I'll meet you later'." He was rewarded by the faintest trace of a smile; her eyes lingered on him then glanced away. At least her colour was starting to come back. "Feeling better?"

She nodded. "Starting to. It doesn't normally get that bad, but it's been getting worse for a while now. The headache'll stick around for a bit. They always do."

"I remember," he said, and she shot him another strange half-suspicious look.

She took a breath. "Why'd you come after me?"

"We're not here because of you, Emma. We're here because of what happened to the guy who was murdered recently."

"Jackson Grey." Her voice was low, numb.

"You did know him."

She nodded, reached for the vodka bottle. But her hand shook so badly, she could barely pour herself a glass. Sam sighed, gestured for the bottle and took over. Hesitated then poured himself a shot. Her eyes softened at that, and then she looked away, curling her fingers around the glass. "He kind of took me in. After my mom died."

"Was Jackson in town looking for you?"

"Yeah. He thought something was coming after him, and he wanted me to see what it was. Like that would make a difference." She sighed. "Just a wild stab in the dark, but I'm guessing he was right."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, he was right. Our friend, Missouri Moseley, put us on to him. She's a psychic too."

"I know the name. Never met her. I keep to myself, more or less." She sipped the vodka, raising an eyebrow. "I think Jackson had a bit of a thing with her, but he had things with pretty much everyone. I mean he could be a dick, but why would anyone want to kill him?"

"He's not the first, Emma. Someone's been killing psychics," he said, and she lifted her head, stared hard at him. He cleared his throat. No easy way to say this. "We think whoever's doing it is harvesting body parts to sell on the black market. Jackson was just the latest victim."

"That's why they took his eyes," she said, and Sam nodded, watched as she ran a hand down over her face. Any trace of colour that might have returned to her skin drained away. "The poor bastard." Then she glanced at him, her eyes sharpening. "You think I'm going to be the next victim, don't you?" She almost sounded amused.

"That doesn't worry you?"

"This guy isn't going to kill me, Sam. I already know how I die."

"Dean kills you," he said quietly. Her gaze lingered on him, wary now. "Emma, we don't kill people. We kill monsters."

"You know, there's some hunters out there who'd call me a monster."

"I'm not one of them. Neither is Dean." But he hesitated for a fraction of a second on that second sentence.

"Yeah, you seem awful sure about that."

"I used to be psychic, remember," he said. Saw her half-smile, lift the vodka to her lips. "What?"

"No one _used_ to be psychic, Sam. You either are or you aren't."

"What did you actually see?"

"Would you believe me if I said I'd forgotten?"

"No. Actually, I wouldn't."

"Yeah. I'm a terrible liar." She sighed, staring down at the vodka in the glass. When she finally spoke again, her voice had flattened into a monotone. "He shoots me. Puts a bullet in my skull."

The sheer certainty in her voice made him hesitate before he spoke again. "We can deal with this. Whatever it is, we can stop it."

She rolled her eyes. "Don't, Sam. This is something I've been living with all my life, okay? I know these visions. I know what's real and what isn't and how they work. You think I haven't tried to change things before? Whenever I do it ends _badly_. So..."

"So you're going to skip town? Running won't solve anything."

"You're probably right about that. But the only thing I can think of is to put as much space between your brother and me as possible."

"You ever hear of the fable _An Appointment in Samarra_?"

"Big Agatha Christie fan, so yes." She sighed at his blank expression. "She uses it in one of her books. _Appointment with Death_. It's the one where... never mind. What else _can_ I do, Sam?"

"Look, I get it. You're frightened–"

"Oh, you have no idea."

"—But we can fix this. We can figure this out. And maybe you can help us track this guy down and stop him."

She didn't answer, only stared at her hands resting on her lap, her face strained and pale and unhappy.

"We can help you, Emma. When I had my visions, I was able to help people. I managed to stop people dying. We can do the same for you."

"I told you," she said. "I've tried to stop things in the past. It didn't work out. In the long run, it only makes things worse."

"Okay, well, do you know any other psychics in town? Anyone else who might be a target? If you can help–"

"I can't. What this is, what I can do, it's useless. All it does is cause pain. And when I try to interfere, things get worse, Sam. I can't help you. I'm sorry."

He slid his number across the table to her. "Would you at least think about it? Please?"

She picked up the card and stared at it. He said her name, and she glanced up at him, the corners of her mouth turned down in unhappiness. "I'll think about it," she said, and he knew she'd already made up her mind to run.

On the way back to the motel, he called Dean, told him what Emma had told him. On the other end of the phone there was a long silence, as if Dean was trying to process what he'd just heard.

Then: "She said _what_?"

"That you're going to kill her," Sam said. "She seemed pretty convinced."

Another few moments of silence from Dean. "Well, there's gotta be a reason. Is she a monster?"

"As far as I can tell she's human."

"She gonna help us?"

Sam sighed. "Actually, I'm pretty sure she's going to skip town. She's probably on her way to the bus station right now."

"Well, that's just... Very noble of her. What a fine upstanding citizen she is. She's _running_ , Sam. Couldn't have something to do with there being hunters in town, huh?"

"You didn't see her, Dean. She's terrified. She's convinced you're going to kill her."

"If I do kill her, it'll be for a reason, I promise you that."

"Yeah, I know that. But I'm not sure she does."

Dean grunted. "Well, while we're on the subject of women we can't trust for a second, I spoke to Bela. Dead end. She hasn't heard of anything new on the market, so whoever's doing this is either doing it on spec for a private seller or for his own personal amusement. Either way, a sick puppy."

 _And another dead lead_.

* * *

Emma swung her pack over her shoulder, picking up speed as she drew closer to the bus station. Twenty more minutes and she'd be on her way out of this godforsaken town. As far away as she could get.

What Sam had said to her the night before played in her mind. Particularly what he'd said about the fable, which she knew well, although she disagreed with his assessment of it.

Because they were hunters, weren't they? When they were done here, they'd move on to the next town, and then the next, and eventually she'd meet up with Dean again. He was going to kill her; there could be no running from that.

And still she had to try.

Her apartment no longer felt safe. Much as she liked Sam Winchester – and she did like him, killer or not – his smell lingered on long after he'd left, and showed no sign of fading. If anything, it seemed to intensify, until she could no longer stand it. Until she knew she was going to be sick again if she stayed any longer. So she'd packed as quickly as she could, stuffing her belongings into her backpack at random. A handful of yellowing paperbacks, some spare clothes, the gun, her vodka. And all the time she was thinking of Jackson. How he'd looked when he'd come into the bar, the calm veneer barely disguising the terror he must have felt.

If only she'd helped him there and then. If only...

The fluorescent lights in the bus station weren't helping her headache. She leaned forward in the uncomfortable metal seating, massaged her forehead with trembling fingers. Muted footsteps echoed on the grimy tiles. Across the room the low murmur of voices.

 _If only_ , she thought. _If only what?_

Nothing would have made a difference. No matter what she'd done, Jackson would still be dead.

She pushed herself up, made her way on shaky legs to the door. Stepped out into the cold air, which tasted crisp, threatening more snow. She shivered, lit a cigarette, took a long steadying drag.

And up the street a figure was approaching, head down, face concealed under a hood. He faltered when he saw her, and she saw the moment he forced himself on. As he passed beneath a lamppost, the light reflected on his pale face. He buried his hands deep in his pockets. For a moment, she thought he was going to avoid her completely, and just walk straight past into the bus station, but instead he stopped a yard or so away. He was avoiding her gaze.

"Hi, Emma," Rafe said. And as he took another step towards her, Emma felt her last trace of hope drain away. Although the smell of death always clung to him, now it was stronger than ever. So intense there could be no mistake: he was another dead man walking.

 _Not Rafe,_ she thought, tears prickling at her eyes. _Please not Rafe._ As if there was anyone who might be listening, anyone who might actually give a damn. He hesitated, then nodded to the cigarette. "You think I could..."

"Sure." She delved in her pack for the cigarettes, her fingers brushing against the reassuring weight of her gun. She drew out the pack, offered him one along with her lighter. He lit it, coughed on the smoke. "Have a vision?"

"More like my spirit guide going apescat. Something's coming for me. And after what happened to that guy the other night..." He tailed off. "You skipping town too?"

She nodded. "There's hunters in town."

"Let me guess. Those two guys in the bar?"

"Those are the ones."

"Yeah, I shoulda known they were full of shit. But they made me think..." He sighed, shook his head. "They the ones who killed that guy?"

"I don't know. Maybe. They say they're looking for the guy who did it, but who knows with hunters, right? The big one – Sam – he used to be psychic apparently."

Rafe snorted. "No one 'used' to be psychic."

"See, that's what I said."

Rafe stared at her for a few moments, like he wasn't sure whether she was lying. Then he shrugged, drew in a shuddering breath and pushed his hand through his hair. " _Shit_." They stood in silence, watching the first snowflakes spiral down from the ink-black sky. "There any point in me running, Em?" he asked, his voice low.

"Rafe–"

"The truth," he said. "Please. I want to know."

 _I doubt that,_ she thought. But she was tired and drained and her head was pounding. "Honestly? No."

Another silence. Another drag of his cigarette. "But you don't know that for certain, right?" he said. He sounded much younger, like a child begging her to lie to him.

"What does your spirit guide say?" she asked, and Rafe glanced to his left for a moment, tilting his head as he listened to something Emma couldn't hear.

"Mack says you're a lying bitch," he told her with an apologetic grimace.

"Your spirit guide's a dick."

"Tell me something I don't know." He paused. "And he's telling me to get the hell out of Dodge, but if you're saying I'm dead anyway..."

Emma dropped her cigarette, crushed it beneath the toe of her boot. "Give me your hand, Rafe."

He shot her a startled look, showing the whites of his eyes. "Why?"

"Because I don't know until I know. Hold out your hand."

Rafe curled his hands into fists, and started to extend his hand. Hesitated again. "What you see... is there any way we can stop it?" There was no hope in his eyes; he already knew the answer.

"No. I'm sorry. At least... I've never been able to before."

"Yeah, that's what I figured. I'm screwed, aren't I?"

She shrugged. "Sooner or later we all are."

He sighed. "I'm twenty-one, Em. Barely even old enough to drink. This isn't fair." Anger now, rising, a tremble in his voice, and he drew a breath and thrust out his hand out, still clenched in a fist. Her headache intensified at just the sight of it. At the thought of putting her skin against his. Her heart began to speed up, with a curious skipping pace, like it couldn't quite keep up the rhythm. _One of these days,_ she thought, _it's going to stop completely. Probably soon._

She held her hand over his, every cell in her body screaming against it because she knew this was going to hurt. Taking shallow breaths, thinking, _Do it, do, it, do it._ Shemet his eyes, saw her own fear and reluctance echoed there, willed him to chicken out. She guessed he was having to fight the urge to throw himself away from her.

And then, because if she didn't do it now she was never going to do it, she forced herself to grip his wrist–

– _And is slammed into the vision, wrenched from her own body into Rafe's. Into a dark place lit by a naked bulb, a rag stuffed in her mouth, choking her as she fights to scream, bands tight around her chest. And a face: gaunt features, dirty red hair. A pale skin freckled with blood, and round his neck an amulet, what looks like human hair arranged in Celtic knotwork. As he leans over her, she fixes her gaze on it, forcing herself to remember it, to focus on anything other than the knife in his hand, the screaming agony in her chest_ –

She wrenched out of the vision, twisted away from Rafe's horrified face, and splattered her guts all over the sidewalk. Passers-by shot her a disgusted look and Rafe spun around after them, snarling, "Keep walking, assholes." His voice twisted with misery and fury and terror. Emma leaned against the wall, retched again.

A throbbing pressure in her skull, pulsing with every beat of her heart. Her vision blurring. The taste of vomit in her mouth.

Rafe's hand on her back.

She flinched, but there were a couple of layers of fabric between his skin and hers. He'd always been careful never to touch her, and she wept, hot tears burning down her cheeks.

"Emma?" His voice was distorted, like the buzzing of wasps.

"I'm..." She exhaled. Not okay. Not okay. Both hands now against the wall. The texture rough. Cold. Fingers numb. The cold kiss of snow on her cheeks, but she welcomed it. The smell of her vomit mingled with the stench of death on Rafe. Reapers gathering. Watching. She could hear their whispering, like an itch in the middle of her skull. If she could, she'd reach inside her head, claw at it with her fingernails to relieve the itch. Her legs crumpled. Rafe caught her.

"Shit," he muttered as he eased her to the ground, away from the puddle of vomit. "You could've warned me."

She tried to speak, but nothing emerged. Her tongue, fat and useless in her mouth. Rafe knelt beside her, his hands resting on her knees. He looked terrified, and she didn't think it was the prospect of his dying that had scared him. Her mother was talking somewhere, garbled nonsense, just like the day they'd taken her to the hospital and she'd never come out again. Too many people, too much skin-to-skin contact. Every vision nudging her closer to death. But Emma wasn't thinking straight, couldn't get her thoughts to make sense. Because that wasn't her mother's voice. Her mother was dead. Had been dead for years.

 _It's me,_ Emma thought. _I'm the one who's trying to talk._

Rafe had his phone in his hand. "I'm calling an ambulance," he said, and panic spiked through her.

"No." She tried to shake her head, and the world dipped and whirled around her like a fairground ride. _I'll be all right in a minute,_ she thought, although she wasn't sure that was true. It felt like her brain was leaking out her ears. Right now, if Dean Winchester showed up with a gun, she'd welcome him. Hell, she'd hand him hers with her blessings and place her forehead against the barrel.

"I think you're having a stroke, Em. I have to..."

"No. Am'lance." She took a breath, forced out the words. "Vodka in my bag."

"You know you're going to die of alcohol poisoning, right?" Rafe reached into her bag, then drew his hand back. "Holy shit. Is that a _gun_?"

"Vodka."

"Right." He swallowed, pulled the bottle out cautiously, like the gun was a snake that might bite him at any moment. He passed the vodka to her, then opened it for her when she couldn't manage much more than a fumble at the bottle cap. She took a swig, and waited while her world pieced itself back together.

When she felt strong enough, he helped her up, slipped her arm over his shoulder. They retreated inside. Found seats tucked away at the back.

They were silent for a long few moments, Rafe's jittering leg the only outward sign of his impatience. "I don't want to know what you saw, do I?"

"No."

"Was it them? The hunters?"

She glanced up at him sharply.

"No," she said. "Not them. It was some skinny red haired guy." Her thoughts were gradually starting to come back into focus. _So not Dean Winchester_ , she thought. Unless they were working together. Rafe was watching her.

"There's something you're not telling me, Emma."

"Mack tell you that?"

"No. I can see it in your face. You're running from them, aren't you?"

She sighed, wishing she could light up another cigarette. If Dean Winchester and alcohol poisoning didn't get her, lung cancer almost certainly would. Assuming she wasn't killed by a massive stroke, same as her mother.

When she didn't answer, Rafe leaned against her. She shuddered at the press of his arm against hers through the fabric of her sleeve. Hurt flickered across Rafe's face, but he suppressed it."Emma, whatever it is you're thinking, don't do it. My bus leaves in twenty minutes. Come with me." Then his eyes widened in alarm. "Unless I shouldn't get on the bus."

"You know I can't answer that. Whatever I tell you, it's going to be wrong. So don't even ask."

He stared at her, his eyes dark. "I'd stay, Emma," he told her, his voice low. "If you asked me to."

"I know you would," she said, looking away. She felt dizzy with his eyes on her. "But I'm not going to ask you to."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Rafe left. She'd known he would, even when he hesitated before getting on the bus. He'd glanced back at her, chewing on his lower lip. "Is this going to be a terrible fucking idea, Emma?"

 _Probably_ , she'd thought, but said nothing. She wished she had the guts to hug him, but her stomach was churning, and she thought if she touched him again it might actually kill her. So instead she wrapped her arms around herself, and watched until the bus drove away.

Once he'd gone, she wandered back into the bus station and sank down, glanced at the number Sam had given her. She wasn't certain why she'd kept it. She'd come so close to throwing it away, but, hunter or not, he had seemed genuinely concerned about her. She'd felt like she could trust him, and it had been a long time since she'd felt she could trust anyone. Certainly not Jackson, and not even Rafe, really.

 _Look at you,_ she thought. _Crushing on a hunter._

Just a shame he stank of death.

It took her a few tries to stab his number into her phone. "Sam, it's Emma."

"Are you okay? Your voice is..."

"Yeah, I..." Another wave of nausea tore through her. She breathed hard through it, fighting the urge to vomit again. When she recovered, she could hear him saying her name on the other end of the line. "Sorry. I had another vision. So soon after the other one, it's kind of... affected me badly. I'll be okay in a minute." Maybe. Except for her brain threatening to clamber out of her skull.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Is your brother with you?"

"I can come alone if you want."

 _Can't keep running._ "No. Bring him. There's an all-night diner on Farley Street." Somewhere public, she figured, although it would be dead this time in the evening. Poor choice of words. "I'll be there. Just... leave the guns in the car, okay?"

* * *

Sam half-expected her to be gone, but she was waiting. Nursing a steaming cup of coffee, sick and slumped and frightened, and he felt a sudden rush of concern for her. She looked so fragile, so in need of help, massaging her forehead with palsied fingers.

"Emma?"

She met his gaze. The faintest trace of a smile crossed her lips, and then she glanced at Dean and she wasn't smiling any more. She shrank back against the ripped banquette seating, eyes widening.

"No gun," Dean said, holding out his hands.

She shot him a look. "I appreciate that. Where'd you leave it?"

"Trunk of the car," he said, and she gave him a strange look, like she couldn't tell whether he was lying or not. And as they sat down she drew in a sharp breath and stared out of the window with a fixed expression.

"You okay?" Sam murmured, aware that they were drawing looks.

Emma nodded. "It's wearing off, thank God. I ran into a friend of mine at the bus station. He's psychic too."

"Let me guess, you had a little skin-to-skin contact," Dean said. Her eyes rested on him, assessing, unreadable. "Where is he now?"

"He ran. Left town."

"That gonna do him any good?"

"Nope." And it was the flat way she said it, just an unemotional statement of fact that made Dean glance sharply at her. Sam could guess what his brother was thinking: how cold she sounded, like the prospect of her friend dying was nothing to her.

"Tell us what you saw, Emma," Sam said, and she drew in a breath, nodding.

They listened as she ran through the vision, breaking off a couple of times as the nosy waitress passed their table, craning out for details. And then when Emma had finished, she glanced at Sam. "Rafe could channel spirits, see beyond the veil."

 _She's talking about him in the past tense_ , Sam realised. Like the kid's death was a foregone conclusion. And he felt a flash of helpless fury with her, at how unwilling she was to fight. Because maybe, just maybe, if she turned and faced this thing head on, there might be a chance she could stop it.

And then, from deep inside him, a quiet, treacherous voice spoke. _Is it her you're angry at, or is it Dean?_

He waited, trying to calm himself, because he knew if he spoke now his voice would be hard and angry, and she'd already been through too much.

He took a breath, met her steady gaze. "Why'd you lie to me, Emma?" He suspected he knew the answer.

A hard flash in her eyes. "Why do you _think_? As far as I knew there was only one guy in town killing psychics, and he happened to be your brother." And there it was: her brittle veneer had shattered and there was nothing in her eyes but fear and heartache and pain.

Dean scowled. "I'm not killing anyone today." He broke off, gritting his teeth as the waitress wandered innocently past. _Again_. When she'd gone, he leaned forward. Emma drew back, shrinking into herself. "We're here to stop this guy. That's it."

She picked up her cup of coffee with a trembling hand. When she spoke her voice was tight and controlled. "Well, thank goodness for you meddling kids." She went to finish the coffee, then thought better of it and slammed the cup down. "I have to go or I'll miss my bus. Again."

"You're still leaving?" Dean said.

"Obviously. Now that I know you a little better, you seem nice and all, but still not in the mood to get shot in the head. So..."

Dean's voice hardened. "You're just gonna run from this?"

"Dean," Sam said.

"I'm not a hunter," she said. "How much help do you think I'm going to be?"

"So you're just going to let your friend get killed because you're scared of me?"

She flushed. "I'm not scared..."

"Yeah, you are. You're terrified. And I can say that I have no intention of killing you, but if you run from this, maybe you kind of deserve it."

"Dean, _enough_."

Emma sank back in her seat, her face blanched white.

"I'm sorry," Sam said.

"No, he's right." She closed her eyes, drew in a long shuddering breath. She was silent for a long time. "Look, if I can help, I'll help. Full disclosure, I don't think I'll be much use. But if we can kill this guy, stop him from hurting anyone else, then okay. Fuck it. I'll do what I can."

* * *

Emma went quiet in the car, the lights of passing street lamps reflecting in her eyes. Dean watched her in the rear-view mirror, silent and fragile on the back seat. _Another damn psychic_ , he thought, and tightened his hands on the steering wheel, because his palm where he'd touched her in the bar seemed to be itching, like insects were crawling underneath the skin.

He was used to things being afraid of him. Monsters, mostly. And yeah, okay, sometimes people too. But never anything like this: a woman who, as far as he could tell, wasn't a monster, hadn't even done anything wrong other than maybe being too afraid to stand and fight.

She was just a kid. Maybe early twenties, but as pale and skinny as she was she looked even younger. And she was _so_ skinny. Fragile, like she'd break easy. His every instinct screamed at him to protect her, but at the same time he wanted to get as far away from her as possible. Because his skin was burning where he had touched her and although he hadn't seen what she'd seen, he knew she was right.

He was going to kill her. One way or another.

They took her back to the motel, booked her into a room of her own, and then retreated to their own room.

"You think it was a mistake bringing her here?" Sam asked quietly.

"I'm not going to shoot her, Sam."

 _Yes, you are, you damn liar._ And that time his inner voice sounded like his father, and the strange sensation in his hand felt like the kick of a gun.

"I know you don't like psychics, Dean."

 _Oh, come_ on.

"I'm going out to get some beer," he said, suddenly furious and desperate to escape. The weather was freezing, but even so the room felt stifling. "You want anything?"

Sam shook his head. Dean shrugged on his jacket, went out into the night. The drive helped a little. And back he came with the beers, but when he slammed the door of the Impala, he saw a small, slight figure sitting on one of the weather-beaten chairs by the empty pool, smoking a cigarette. The flare of the embers. Ashtray on the table overflowing. A notebook resting in her lap, as she sketched.

The burning in his hand intensified. He clenched it into a fist, willing it away, trying not to think about the weight of his gun in its holster. "Emma?"

Slowly he moved past the light spilling out from the motel rooms, past the shadows of people moving inside. Towards her.

"You shouldn't be out here," he said.

"I know, right? Somebody might shoot me."

He laughed, couldn't help it, ran his hand over his hair. "Damn, this is freaking weird."

And for the first time, she grinned at him. "Tell me about it. Want a cigarette?"

"I don't smoke."

"Good for you." She held the cigarette up, watching the smoke wreath up towards the sky. "I've been meaning to give up, but fuck it. Not like _they're_ going to kill me, right?"

"Emma..." And he found he didn't know what to say. He'd wanted to tell her again that it wasn't going to happen, but he didn't feel much like lying. "Want a beer?"

She nodded and he handed her one, hesitated and then sat down. "Can I ask you something? This vision thing, every time you touch someone you see how they die?"

"Pretty much." Her voice was weary. "Ever since I can remember?"

And the next question – _did you see how I die?_ – caught in his throat. He tightened his hand around the beer bottle, clenching his jaw, because he couldn't bring himself to ask it. So instead: "Like _every_ time?"

She stared at him, and he guessed that she knew exactly what he had been about to ask. "Is this a roundabout way of asking me if I get visions when I'm having sex?"

" _What_? No!" He paused. "Actually, yes. Do you?"

She nodded.

"Well, that must suck," he said.

She sighed, exhaled a long stream of smoke. "It really, really does."

And because she hadn't slapped him yet, and it felt like safer ground than the thought of him putting a bullet in the brain of an innocent frightened woman, he took a swig of beer and focused on this instead. "How do you... you know."

"Alcohol helps. If I'm drunk enough, it numbs the visions, gives them less power, so I only get flashes. It also helps if the guy's kind of a dick." She flashed him a tight unhappy smile. "I try not to screw men I actually like."

He found himself thinking of the way she'd been around Sam, the way the two of them watched each other. And how she drew back into herself when Sam got too close, her constant defensive posture, the borderline exhaustion in her eyes. Dean recognised loneliness when he saw it.

What would it be like? he wondered. To never be able to have sex with someone without seeing how they die?

To be stuck sleeping with assholes because sleeping with someone you actually liked was too fucking painful?

He felt soreness in his throat and he took a swig of beer to swallow it down, stared up at the flat, starless sky.

"Hey, Dean, can I ask _you_ something?" she asked. "Your brother. Did he really used to be psychic?"

Dean hesitated. There was something in her gaze, a faint light of desperation. The faintest flicker of hope. "Yeah."

She paused, chewing on her lower lip. "And it just went away?"

"You should speak to Sam about this."

"I'm asking you. I think Sam would probably tell me what I want to hear."

 _Yeah,_ Dean thought grimly. _You and me both._

"And you don't think I will?" he said. Her only response was a one-shouldered shrug. A sip of her beer. The brief flicker of hope he'd seen in her eyes was already dying. "You know you're right, I won't. This psychic crap, I'm not its biggest fan. The truth is, I'm not sure it has gone away. I think it's still there, buried inside him some place. Lying dormant. Just waiting."

"And that worries you?"

"Whatever this thing is, it's not good, I know that. It's dangerous. And I think if he starts down that road... If I'm not around to stop it..." He trailed off, took another swig of beer. Changed the subject. "You've never tried to change what you saw in a vision?"

She gave him a hard look. "Seriously? Of course I have." She took a deep breath and composed herself, but he could see the tension in the line of her shoulders. "It's not that I can't change things, because I can. The unimportant shit changes, but the basics always – _always_ – stay the same. Usually they get worse. You think I can't hate myself more than I already do?"

Dean was silent for a few moments. "I'm sorry about what I said in the diner."

"Don't be. You were right." She sighed, took another swig of beer. "I'm sick of running. I'm sick of being scared. It's not like it'll make any difference in the long run. So..." A shrug, a tired half-smile. "I can't change what's going to happen. You're going to kill me, Dean. There's no changing that. But screw it, it's okay. I'm tired of running. And if nothing else, I can help catch this fucker who killed my friends. So." She set the notebook on the table and slid it across to him. He glanced down, a talisman that looked like Celtic knot work, drawn in scrappy lines. "I'm not much of an artist but that's as close to what I saw as I think I'm going to get. That in the middle, it was like a bunched up piece of fabric with something inside."

"Like a hex bag?"

She shrugged. "I haven't got a freaking clue what one of those looks like, but I guess so."

"Okay then." He stood up. "I'll get a shot of this across to Bobby, see if we can't track this bastard down." And then he paused, glancing back at her. "Aren't you gonna tell me not to worry about Sam?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I think you're probably right to worry about him," she said, and stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, pushed herself up, shaky on her legs like a new born foal

* * *

Emma woke from restless dreams, the covers tangled around her legs. The wind howled outside, and she lay back down, thinking about how close her room was to the Winchesters, wondered if they were awake or sleeping. Whether either of them were thinking about her. And then, as she started to slip back into the grip of sleep, she saw a figure at the edge of her room. She scrambled up in bed, opening her mouth to scream, certain it was Dean Winchester come to kill her.

The shape was gone. Nothing but a shadow cast on the wall.

"Shit." She hunched over, buried her fingers in her hair. Lying to herself again, because she knew it hadn't been a shadow.

But it hadn't been Dean Winchester either.

She slipped out of bed, padded to where she'd left her phone charging at the wall socket. Glanced at her screen, hoping for a text message from Rafe, but knowing there'd be nothing there. No messages.

She swore again. Then she dialled his number, her vision blurring with tears as she reached his voice mail. She'd already left him several messages, so she hung up. Stood for a moment, indecisive, clicking her fingernail against the screen of the phone. And finally dialled again, even though she knew it was hopeless. A waste of time.

This time someone answered.

As her call connected, she felt the urge to laugh in relief, but there was nothing on the other end but silence and the sound of someone breathing. Cold dread flooded through her. She hung up again, her heart skittering in her chest.

 _I'd stay, Emma. If you asked me to._

She should have asked him to stay.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

After the phone call, Emma couldn't sleep, and in the morning the eyes of her reflection in the bathroom mirror were hollow eyed. She put some make-up on to conceal the worst of her exhaustion, but she saw the look Sam shot her when he saw her, a flash of worry, quickly hidden.

Her headache settled to a dull throb behind her eyeballs. And all through the day she kept feeling the temptation to call Rafe's number over and over again. Like probing a painful tooth with the tip of her tongue.

More and more she felt the irony of the Winchesters trying to protect her, when the truth was one of them was going to kill her. And while Sam refused to accept it, Dean knew it was true. She could see it in the way his expression tightened whenever he looked at her. And it was odd, because she still felt safe around them both. Even Dean. Especially Dean, because she was still terrified of touching Sam. She didn't want to see how he died.

As the day passed with research and calls to some guy they called Bobby, it was clear that they were treading water. With every hour that passed her unease grew. The itching sensation on the back of her neck got harder to ignore.

And then, as she sat at the table in their motel room, a cheeseburger in one hand, her copy of _The Pale Horse_ in the other, someone knocked on the door.

Sam and Dean went still, exchanging a look. And although she had been starting to feel safe around them, the sight of the gun in Dean's hand made her shrink into her seat in sudden terror. Then she caught Sam watching her, and she looked away, flushing with fury and humiliation. She was sick of being afraid, sick of being _pitied_.

 _When this is over,_ she started to think, _when this is over I'll.._. But the thought trailed off, because when this was over she would be dead.

Dean answered the door, and it seemed that he knew the woman who stood there, because he rolled his eyes and the tension in his body eased off. "Hello, Dean," she said, in a British accent that made Emma think of Jackson with a stabbing pang of regret.

"Bela," he said, his voice flat, like seeing her was the bad highlight of what had been a very bad day. She was beautiful though, with the kind of sleek grooming that only came with effort and wealth.

Bela moved past him with an amused smile, unconcerned at how irritated he seemed at the sight of her or the weapon in his hand. "Sam," she said, nodding. "And..." She paused, her gaze lingering on Emma. "And whoever you are. A friend of Dean's, I take it. Aren't you the lucky one?"

Dean slammed the door. "What the hell do you want, Bela?"

"Well, since you're not going to introduce me." And she came towards Emma, holding out her hand. "Bela Talbot."

"Emma Andersen. I'm afraid I don't shake hands. No offence meant."

Bela gave her a knowing smile. "None taken. As it happens, I've heard of you, and I'm truly sorry for your loss. Jackson and I were close."

"And I say again," Dean said. "What the hell do you want, Bela?"

A smile tugged at Bela's lips. Her gaze lingered on Emma for a few more moments and then she turned towards him. "I've found your guy," she said. "I couldn't trust you two knuckle heads to deal with this on your own. So." She smiled. "Do I get a 'way to go' at the very least?"

"You can get a 'go to hell'," Dean said. "Will that do?"

"Just tell us where he is, Bela," Sam said.

"Not so fast. I'm coming with you," she said.

"Yeah, that's not happening," Dean said. "You think we'd trust you an inch after the stunt you pulled with the hand of glory? And sending Gordon after us?"

"You're not still upset about that, are you?" she said, raising her eyebrows.

Dean turned away, shooting Sam a look. "I swear to God, Sam..."

Sam shook his head. "Sorry, Bela."

Bela sighed. "All right, fine." She drew a scrap of paper from the pocket of her coat and threw it at them. "Abandoned factory off the interstate. Repeat after me, 'Thank you, Bela.'" Her expression darkened. "But you have to promise me that you're going to get this bastard."

"Why do you care so much?" Sam asked, picking the address up and glancing at it.

"I told you, Jackson Grey was a friend of mine. An extremely close friend, if you catch my drift. He was a good man and a powerful ally, so I want his death avenged. Think you could manage that?"

Sam glanced at Emma. "Are you going to be be okay?"

"I'm safer here," she said. She didn't add, 'Away from Dean,' because the English woman was listening, but she saw Sam glance at his brother. Dean stared at her, flexing his right hand like something had burned him.

She gave them a tight reassuring smile. "It'll be okay," she said, and Dean looked away. She pulled the gun out of her bag and held it up; she wasn't proficient by any means, but she was good enough. "See?" she said. "Go." And she felt the shiver of something on the outskirts of the room. The feeling of Rafe watching her, that he wanted to say something.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "All right," Dean said finally but he cast a suspicious look at Bela. And as they left, he drew closer to her, went still when she tensed up. She pressed hard against the wall, her breath catching on her throat, but he didn't touch her. "Just don't trust Bela," he said. "Whatever you do."

Once the Winchesters had gone, it was easier to tell that the woman in front of her was not long from death. Emma couldn't tell how long she had exactly; maybe a couple of weeks, maybe less. _Less than Dean,_ she thought; the smell was much stronger. So intense she could almost sense the Reaper's gaze turning towards the motel room.

She was sick of it all now, tired of the nausea, of the constant pulsing on the inside of her skull.

As soon as this was over, she was going to get out of this town. Find somewhere quiet and peaceful and isolated. A cabin in the woods maybe. Where she could just...

Just what? Drink herself to death?

Not like it was going to happen anyway.

She wanted a cigarette, but it was dark outside now, and now that they'd left her feeling of safety had slipped away. She didn't know where Dean was, and it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that he might break away from Sam, return to the motel and–

 _Stop it, Emma_.

She should have gone with them. At least then they'd get this over with.

She could feel Bela's eyes on her back. And she kept thinking about Rafe, the way he'd looked back at her just before he'd gotten on the bus. Almost begging her to stop him.

"Jackson spoke about you a lot," Bela said.

Emma turned from the window and glanced at her. She'd always thought Jackson had kept his own secrets close, and hers even closer. "What did he tell you?"

"How frightened you were. He felt sorry for you. He cried for you."

"That doesn't sound like Jackson."

"He was a complicated man."

"Yeah." Emma sighed, turned to the window, tears prickling at her eyes. Could she had changed anything? She already knew there wasn't, but maybe, if she'd tried...

In the reflection in the glass, she saw Bela Talbot tug at the delicate crucifix that hung on a silver chain around her neck. As the wind picked up outside, Bela's mouth tightened. _She knows she's going to die_ , Emma thought. _She's afraid of something._

"Sam and Dean don't seem all that fond of you," Emma said, turning back.

Bela flashed her a knowing smile. "They're just a little bit sore. They don't like to be outwitted by a woman. Dean's bark is worse than his bite, believe me."

"Yeah." Emma snorted, thinking about the barrel of a gun trained on her. "I wouldn't be so certain about that."

Bela tilted her head, gave Emma curious look.

"You know, I envy you," she said. And something in her voice made the skin on the back of Emma's neck prickle.

"I'm sorry?"

Bela closed her hand around the crucifix. Any trace of a smile had been stripped away, replaced by an expression that was grim, almost angry. "Having the power that you have, this connection to the spirit world. It's a gift–"

"Gift? This isn't a gift. It's a damn curse."

Something dark flashed in Bela Talbot's eyes. And suddenly Emma was sick of the scent of death and the insistent pressure in her skull, and this woman daring to claim she knew Emma better than she knew herself.

 _Fuck you, Jackson, for getting me tied up in this_.

"I'm going for a cigarette," she said.

"Those things'll kill you, you know."

Emma snorted. She set the gun down on the table, and started to rifle through her bag for the cigarettes. "I seriously doubt that," she muttered. There was a flicker across the room, and she saw Rafe standing on the other side of the table, his eyes dark.

And Bela was standing too close behind her. Emma turned with a gasp. Bela's hand was still closed around the crucifix, tugging on the leather cord.

 _Leather?_

"Well," Bella said, "I agree with you there." Her voice twisted, distorting, and shadows crawled across her face.

Fear surged through Emma like an incoming tide. She spun away, too late. Bela raised the pistol, swung it down, slamming the butt into Emma's skull.

Her world went black.

* * *

Someone whispered her name. Emma opened her eyes to darkness. All around her she felt the rumbling of an engine, the sensation of movement. Her face was pressed against a greasy, musty-smelling tarp, her body contorted to fit into what she realised had to be the trunk of a car. Her arms were twisted behind her back, something cutting into her wrists.

 _That bitch._

No fucking wonder she hadn't felt safe when the Winchesters left.

Emma squirmed onto her back, wincing at the stinging pain in her wrists. As she braced herself to kick at the trunk, she went still. She wore no jacket, only her long-sleeved top, and she started to shiver, her teeth chattering with the icy cold. Something was here. She could feel it, a presence, hunched above her in the trunk. Not threatening, not dangerous; just watching.

"Rafe?" Her voice was barely audible above the noise of the engine but she knew he'd heard.

In reply he lowered himself around her. A cool liquid sensation, like sorrow and love and heartache made manifest, slipping against her skin. He wrapped himself around her like a lover. Whispered her name, his voice an itch inside her skull. She felt the touch of something chill on her cheeks, and then against her lips.

"You were right," he said, his voice sounding like it was coming from far away, over a distorted line. "There wasn't anything I could do."

She closed her eyes. Hot tears burned on her chilled flesh. Maybe, with any luck, she'd freeze to death like this. Not give the bitch the satisfaction.

 _It's not her that kills you,_ she thought. _Remember?_

"Emma." The way he said her name made her think of all those nights sitting on the couch in her crappy apartment. That carefully delineated space between them. Drinking beers, watching terrible horror movies. He'd always been so careful not to touch her, even though she could tell he wanted to. She'd felt it too when she was drunk and sad enough, the hunger to give in and screw him, even though it would destroy everything between them. "I'm scared."

"I know." And if she had her hands free she would have wrapped her arms around him. Had he seen a Reaper yet? Or was something keeping them away?

When the car stopped, Rafe was still curled against her, his forehead resting against hers. It helped; the cool pressure of his spirit soothed away the last lingering traces of her headache. She'd never lain with anyone like this in her life before, like lovers in the afterglow of sex. And she found herself thinking of Sam Winchester, and what it might be like to make love to him. And to lie with him afterwards, cocooned within the blankets in a cheap motel room, skin to skin.

She closed her eyes, an ache in her throat.

It was never going to happen. Not with Sam. She liked him too much.

Rafe uncurled. His cold lips brushed against hers again, and then the trunk was jerked open, and she saw the outline of Bela Talbot against the sky.

Only for a moment, and then her face was obscured by crawling shadows. Her face shifting and crawling, the features rearranging themselves. Her hair shortened, her cheeks sinking inwards, until she had become the red-haired man Emma had seen murdering Rafe. With a caved-in look about his skull, an unfocused mad quality to his eyes, and the talisman around his neck. She hadn't quite got it right, she saw, staring at it. No wonder they hadn't been able to find it.

"Hello Emma," he said. "I'm Gregory." And he reached for her.

Emma flinched, but he was wearing latex gloves. His fingers probed at her lips, trying to stuff a balled up rag inside her mouth. She bit him and he snatched his hand back and struck her. Her head snapped to the side, and when he made a move to gag her again, she glared at him. "I'll bite your fucking finger off. Maybe you can use that as a talisman."

"Fine," Gregory said, and threw the gag aside. He shrugged. "Not like there's anyone to hear you anyway. But just so you know, I have a headache, so try not to scream. I'm not in the fucking mood. This can go as hard or as easy as you want it to, sweetheart."

"Screw you."

She tried to kick and fight as he hauled her out of the trunk, but he gripped her hair, wrenched her head back. Agony throbbed at the base of her skull, and her pounding headache had returned in full force. He forced her inside a run-down old farmhouse, down rickety wooden stairs into the cellar. It was lit by a naked bulb, which cast a yellowish light on a dirt floor and Rafe's half-naked body slumped in a chair. His chest was a cavity, his mouth a bloody ruin.

She forced her gaze away to stare at a table. At a silver bowl filled with bloody teeth. A fingernail. A strange gristly lump it took her a moment to recognise as an ear. And the talisman he'd been making with Rafe's body parts.

Dizzy, light-headed, she glanced back at the man who called himself Gregory. "Does that shit really work?" Her voice sounded hollow, numb.

He was silent for a moment. "You trying to stall me?"

And then, because it didn't make any difference what she said, "Yes."

He stared at her, then laughed. "Damn, fucking psychics are all the same the world over. You're a lot like that asshole, Jackson."

"He was a good man."

"He was a cunt." He folded his arms. There was a curious delicacy to his movements, and she saw in the prematurely aged ruin of his face the beautiful young man he must once have been. "He used everyone he came across. Why do you think he didn't come looking for you until you were sixteen? Minimum age, Emma."

"Fuck you."

"He would have done, if you'd let him." He winked. "And if he could have figured out another way to use you, he would have done that too. But he was all about free will, I'll give you that. He let you choose your own path. Wasn't that decent of him? And I'll admit I'm grateful to the man. He led me right to you."

She closed her eyes. "They're going to kill you," she said.

"You mean the Winchesters?" He laughed. "They can try. Do you know what it's like to be lonely, Emma?"

"No," she said. "Why would I? I work in a crappy bar and I live on my own in a shitty apartment which doesn't even have Wi-Fi. I'm so fucking connected to the world."

He snorted. "Yeah. Stupid question, right? But I never used to be. Right from the moment I was born, I could feel the spirit world." He laid his hand over his chest. "Right here. And then just like that it was gone. Silenced overnight. And I was... nothing. I didn't deserve what happened to me. It was just a stupid fucking accident, that five-car pile up on the Interstate. Except it wasn't a goddamn accident, it was _demons_. That same storm-cloud of demons that the Winchesters freed from hell. So let them come." Pointing the poker at her. "Part of me is sort of hoping that they do come."

 _He's insane._ "What the hell are you talking about? There's no such thing as–"

"As demons?" He shook his head. "Well, I'm sorry to be the one who breaks it to you, Emma, but yes there is. And there's a hell of a lot more loose in the world thanks to those two dicks you've befriended."

She stared at him, trying to work out if he was crazy or just lying. Maybe both.

At her expression, he laughed again, but angrily now. "Jesus. You really didn't know, did you? How can you be so _ignorant_?" He came towards her, gripped her hair tight enough to make her cry out in pain. "You make me sick, you know?" His breath hot against her ear, his skin close to his. "You were given a gift, something precious. Do you know how angry it makes me to see you wasting it?"

"You sick fucking bastard." She turned her head to look at him. "You're insane."

He punched her. Hard. She collapsed, and he kicked her in the gut. Circled around her, breathing hard, as she rolled up, curling into a ball to protect herself. Heard the scuff of his boots on the packed dirt floor. Another kick to her kidneys.

The light overhead flickered and he drew back. Emma risked a look, saw her breath on the air. _Rafe's coming_ , she thought.

Gregory picked up a poker. His fingers shifted around it, his expression nervous. Emma pressed her back against the table. "I just want it back," he said, casting his gaze around the cellar. "That's all. I didn't deserve this, Emma. And maybe I can't get it back permanently but I can get pretty damn close."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

The abandoned factory at the outskirts of the town's industrial district stood amongst a host of other boarded-up businesses. The streets here were silent. Empty. _The perfect place to murder a bunch of psychics,_ Sam thought, and still something didn't feel right.

"You think we can trust Bela with Emma?" he asked.

"Hell no. She's looking for a way to turn this to her advantage." Dean parked the car, and hesitated. "But Emma's safer there than she is with us." His voice was flat.

Sam glanced at him, frowning. "You think she's right about the vision." His brother's expression told him the answer to his question. "You're not actually going to kill her, Dean. She hasn't done anything."

"You think I don't know that? I hate this psychic crap, Sam."

Sam winced. But he could tell his brother was lying, holding something back. Dean took his hand from the wheel, rubbing at his palm as if something was irritating him. "What's wrong with your hand?" Sam asked.

Dean glanced down, like he hadn't even realised he was doing it. "Nothin'."

Even before they'd gotten through the fence and into the abandoned factory, Sam knew something was wrong. They moved past graffitied walls, past broken-down machinery left to rust and rot. Through empty rooms filled with beat-up lockers, finding no sign of life other than a couple of sleek fat rats and a filthy mildewed mattress, countless empty scattered beer cans, and the smell of damp.

Sam lowered his gun. "The place is empty," he said, and met Dean's gaze, thinking, _Oh fucking shit. Emma._

And as they rushed back out to the car, Sam dialled Emma's cell, with no response, while Dean called Bela, scowling.

"What the hell are you playing at, Bela? There's nothing here." Sam watched him, unease growing in his gut. Bela's voice sounded tinny and impatient on the end of the line, and Dean's expression shifted from anger to worry. "What the hell do you mean you're still in Baltimore? We just saw you at the motel–" He stopped, eyes widening, stared at Sam. "Oh _crap_."

And he hung up on Bela while she was still talking. "We gotta get back to the motel, Sam. Anything from Emma?"

"She's not answering her phone. Back at the motel. That wasn't Bela?" He tried Emma's number again, but this time the call connected.

He heard Emma's voice, weak and frightened. "Sam?"

"Emma! Are you okay?"

"Not exactly." A tremble in her voice. Sam swallowed, glanced at Dean.

"Emma, listen to me. That woman, it's not–"

"Not Bela Talbot? Yeah, I figured that." There was a tremble in her voice, but otherwise she sounded strong. "He says his name is Gregory. He says he knows you, Dean."

"I don't know any..." And then something flickered in Dean's eyes. "Wait, Gregory... Gregory Keane?"

"I..." A murmur in the background. "Yes." Dean clenched his jaw in fury.

"You know this guy?" Sam asked softly and Dean nodded.

"We're coming for you, Emma," he said. "You hear me, Gregory? You hurt her, you're a dead man."

"Don't worry, Dean," she said, her voice hardening. "It's going to take more to kill me than this pathetic, powerless cu—" The sound of a fist hitting flesh over the the phone, a cry of pain.

Sam clenched his fingers around the phone in fury. "Emma? Emma!"

There was a faint scuffle over the line. And then Emma's voice again, weaker now. "I'm okay. He says..." He heard her swallow. "He says come and get him."

"Tell him he's a dead man," Sam said. Saw Dean glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah. I already di–" And the call cut off.

"Damn it."

Sam stared at his brother. "You know this guy, Dean?"

"Yeah, I think so. Gregory fucking Keane. He's a psychic. Seemed like a nice guy. He helped Dad out on a case when you were in Stanford. Call Bobby, see if he knows anything."

Sam nodded, dialled Bobby's number, put him on speaker. "Hey, Sam," Bobby said. "I'm still working on finding that amulet. It's an old Druid charm, I think, but I'm having trouble narrowing it down. You sure that picture's accurate?"

"No, but we've got a good idea what it does," Sam said. "Can any of those amulets make the bearer look like a different person?"

There was a pause and then Bobby's voice returned, with a sardonic note. "Since you mention it, yes. I'm guessing you boys learned that the hard way."

"What does it do?" Dean asked.

"It's kind of a glamour charm, but a powerful one. It twists people's expectations, shows them what what they want to see and hear."

"Because what we wanted to see was Bela?" Dean said, dryly. "Yeah, I'm not buying that. I can't believe we trusted that bitch."

"It wasn't her," Sam said.

"Because that makes it better, Sam?" He thumped his hand on the wheel. " _Damn it_!"

Sam drew in a breath. "But this explains the vision Emma had of you killing her, Dean. Maybe it's not you at all."

"What vision?" Bobby demanded. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Uh, we'll explain later, Bobby. Do you remember a psychic called Gregory Keane?" Sam asked. "Red hair, skinny?"

"Gregory? Yeah, but he ain't no psychic any more. He was in an accident a while back... Shattered his skull. Since then, his powers have been MIA. Why, you think it's him?"

"We're pretty sure," Dean said grimly. "You don't agree?"

"No, it could be. Way I hear it, he went off the reservation after his accident. Virtually lost his damn mind."

"Enough to slaughter a bunch of psychics?"

"I guess you never really know somebody, but yeah, maybe."

"So that might explain why Bela hasn't heard of anything on the market," Dean said. "Because he's not selling this crap. He's keeping it for himself. Ed Geining these poor bastards and turning them into trinkets for his own private use. Sick son-of-a-bitch. That's what he's going to do to Emma and we have no way of finding this guy."

"Maybe not." Sam said. Dean stared at him for a moment, and then grimaced, thumping his hand against the wheel again.

"Damn it. _Bela?_ "

Bobby sighed. "You boys just don't learn, do ya?"

#

Another kick to her ribs. She curled herself into a ball as best she could with her arms still tied behind her back, bracing herself for another blow. When none came, she unwound slightly, listening out for him. She could hear his footsteps, circling around, away from her, his breathing hard and fast. He sounded excited. Like he was enjoying this.

She unwound a little more, and pressed her shoulders against the table, used it to steady herself as she pushed herself to her feet. She glanced at Gregory circling away from her, then she turned her attention to the table, to the talisman he'd fashioned from Rafe's remains. A handful of molars, the roots dark with dried blood, knotted into a cat's-cradle of spun black hair.

"You'd understand, you know," Gregory said, and she darted her gaze back to him as he came towards her, his voice rising with fury. "If you'd used your gift instead of running like a frightened child."

He jerked the poker back. Overhead the bulb flickered, and the temperature dropped. Their breath frosted on the air. Rafe crackled into existence, his young face contorted with rage. He surged towards Gregory, who swung the poker. As Rafe's spirit burst apart, Emma snagged the talisman, and closed her fingers around it.

And instantly the world telescoped away from her, filled with shivering whispers and currents she'd never been aware of. She felt a shivery echo of Rafe's touch, the sensation of his eyes on her.

Gregory turned towards her again, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. "At least that little shit did something with his gift. You know he was in love with you, right? It's why the stupid fucker got off the bus."

And Rafe had returned. Watching her, sadness in his eyes. _Go,_ she screamed silently. _The Winchesters. Find them._

He vanished.

Gregory stared at her. "Emma?" His voice was cautious, mistrustful. The talisman felt warm in her hand. She gripped it hard, reached out into the spirit world, screamed for help from as many spirits as she could find. And there were a lot of them, drawn to what Gregory had been doing. And there was one in particular, its bulk sweeping through the ether like a great white shark, scattering the other spirits in its wake.

The light flickered.

As Gregory glanced up at the bulb, Jackson appeared behind him, and plunged his hand into Gregory's chest. He screamed, flailed backwards with the poker. And even Jackson's spirit couldn't withstand cold iron. He burst apart.

Gregory gasped, his eyes wide and terrified, swinging around with the poker. Emma moved, bumped against something on the table, and his head snapped around, eyes widening in realisation.

"You bitch," he breathed, and then he was coming at her. He twisted her around, prising her fingers open. Wrenched the talisman from her grip. The crazy fucker almost looked hurt. He met her gaze, and then again, softer, said, "You bitch." His grip on the back of her neck tightened. He slammed her face against the table, dragged her up, his face close to hers, so close she could feel his breath hot on her cheek. "You bit–"

She jerked her head sideways before he could shove her away. Pressed her skin against his. And was flung into the vision, into a world of darkness and writhing shadows, of agony and Gregory screaming.

He tore away from her. Emma crumpled, vomited the remains of the cheeseburger all over his jeans. It wasn't much of a victory, but it gave her a shivery little thrill of triumph, until she looked up at him and saw cold inhuman rage in his eyes.

"You're going to die," she said. "They're going to rip you apart."

"The Winchesters again? Let them fucking try." He threw the poker aside, drew a knife. "It won't be before I do the same to you."

#

Another goddamned dead end. It seemed like they'd been driving in circles for hours with Bela's voice like the world's most irritating Sat-Nav. "No, no, no, you've gone too far, Dean. Turn the car around."

Dean slammed his hand against the wheel. "She's messing with us, Sam." But he gritted his teeth, did a three-point-turn, drove back along the road.

"You missed the turn-off," she said.

"There was no turn-off, you–" Dean caught the look Sam was giving him, and clenched his jaw. Thought of the way Emma had watched him by the empty pool. _Maybe it's better if we don't find her,_ he thought.

Bela's voice was cold and so controlled he had to fight the urge to grab the phone out of Sam's hand and fling it out the window. "If you think you can do better, Dean..."

"We need to find her, Bela," Sam said.

"You're the pair of idiots who left this poor girl alone with a murderer in the first place, remember? Frankly, I'm a little hurt you fell for such a shallow illusion."

"You're a shallow illusion," Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam rolled his eyes at him. "This isn't helping."

"I'm doing the best I can," Bela snapped. "Something's got the spirits riled up. It's making it hard to pinpoint her exact location. It's chaos out there at the moment."

The phone crackled. The temperature in the Impala had dropped. Dean exchanged a look with Sam, and then glanced in the rear view mirror, saw a spirit on the back seat. "Oh crap."

"What?" Bela was saying. "What is it?"

But the spirit of Rafe Demarquez just sat there, staring at them.

As Sam swung around, Rafe flickered and then was gone. He reappeared in the road ahead, the headlights of the Impala reflecting on his pallid face and the snow whirling in eddies around him. Dean fought the urge to slam on the brakes and hit the ghost dead on, his skin prickling with static as the Impala ploughed through the spirit.

 _Better not have left any fucking ectoplasm in my damn car_ , he thought grimly.

His eyes widened as Rafe appeared further up the road. "What the fu-"

"I think he's showing us the way, Dean," Sam said.

"Crap, it's like fricking Lassie Come Home. With ghosts."

"What the hell's going on over there?" Bela demanded.

"I think we're finally getting some help from the other side," Sam said. "Thanks a lot for your help, Bela." He hung up.

"'Thanks a lot for your help, Bela?'" Dean repeated, side eyeing his brother.

"What?"

"You didn't even try to sound sarcastic. You badly need to get laid, Sammy."

"Shut up."

"You know, I'm pretty sure Emma has a thing for–"

"There." Sam pointed to the side of the road where Rafe's spirit stood. "What the hell..." And as the Impala drew closer, Dean saw a narrow track winding off into the trees, so overgrown they would never have seen it if it hadn't been for the spirit. "Huh. I guess Bela was right. You did miss the turn-off."

"Screw you." But he took the turn-off.

Ahead they saw a light burning through the trees. Dean turned off the engine. "I say we keep the element of surprise and walk from here." They moved around to the trunk, loaded shotguns with rock salt. The long winding track led them to a crumbling old farmhouse, with a porch of rotting splintering wood, jagged shards of glass still wedged in rotting window frames. The door, tagged with long-flaked graffiti, hung on a broken hinge, and on the porch the spirit of Rafe Demarquez waited for them.

"Okay, I'm saying it," Dean muttered. "That's just creepy."

Sam glanced at him. "What? Because he's trying to help?"

"Spirits aren't supposed to help, Sam. He's not a vengeful spirit, he's not a death omen. I don't know what the hell he is. I say again, creepy."

"If Emma's right, he's been dealing with spirits since he was a kid. Psychics make powerful ghosts."

"Not helping, Sam." As they climbed the steps, the spirit vanished. The tension in Dean's shoulders eased, returned with a vengeance when the floorboards creaked ominously under his weight. He stepped around a jagged hole where something had fallen through, and froze at the sound of a woman's scream somewhere from inside the house.

Moving as quickly and as quietly as he could, he shoved the door open, felt too late the pressure of a tripwire. He winced, as just beyond the doorway a pile of books went crashing to the ground.

He exchanged a grim expression with Sam. "So much for the element of surprise," Sam said, and they both moved into the hall. The screams had gone silent.

 _The cellar,_ he thought. _In a creepy ass place like this it was always the damn cellar._

The temperature dropped. One minute it was cold, the next below freezing. Dean had just barely enough time to say his brother's name and then Rafe reappeared between them, no longer calm and unnervingly helpful, but a howling, screaming hurricane of pent-up rage and fury. It slammed into him, flinging Dean against the wall. A hand closed around his throat, but Rafe's eyes were pits of torment and sorrow.

Sam blasted the shotgun, the sting of salt peppering Dean's skin, and the spirit vanished. "So much for Casper the helpful ghost," Dean said. "Think it was a trap?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't think so. He only turned after you set off the tripwire. I think Gregory is controlling him somehow–"

There was another surge of power. Another spirit appeared behind Sam. Dean saw dark skin, empty eye-sockets, a bloody mess of a suit. And then the spirit's hand was inside Sam's chest, clamped around his heart.

As Dean raised his own shotgun, empty eye-sockets turned towards him. He felt Jackson scouring his brain, the sensation like fingers scratching down the inside of his skull. Rooting through every thought, every wish, every desire. Every nightmare he'd been having about hell, about being torn apart by Hellhounds, about leaving Sam alone and unprotected. It was so intense he wanted to scream. Felt the urge to drop the shotgun and claw his own eyes out of his skull to stop the images flashing before them.

Somewhere below, a woman screamed again. Dean's eyes snapped open. He saw Sam gasping as a spirit squeezed the life from his heart. He forced the shotgun up, pulled the trigger and the spirit shattered apart. Sam crumpled to his knees, gasping for breath, a dark smear of ectoplasm on his shirt.

Dean moved towards his brother. From the cellar, they more screaming, staccato shrieks of agony. Sam waved Dean away, managed to gasp, "Emma."

"Sam–"

"Go, Dean. Help her." Sam pushed himself to his feet, breathing hard. Gave him a look. "Try not to shoot her."

"No promises," he said, and regretted it immediately. As he went along the hall, he saw Rafe reappear in the corner of his eye, and a swirling maelstrom of icy wind suggested Jackson wouldn't be far behind. Sam whirled into the kitchen, and Dean moved to the cellar, heard a shotgun blast behind him.

He slammed through the cellar door, and onto a set of wooden stairs, drawing his handgun. Below he heard the sound of a woman whimpering and it filled him with fury. The stairs creaked beneath him as he hurried down, scanning the shadows of the cellar. His gaze glanced off Rafe Demarquez's lifeless body slumped in a chair, towards Emma who had been stripped back to her underwear. Her white skin was streaked with blood that looked black in the dim light. Her breathing sped up when she saw him, the sound harsh and guttural. Her wide eyes remained on him, filled with pain and terror. She looked like a frightened animal.

"Emma, where is the son of a bitch?"

She flicked her eyes over his shoulder. A scuffling came from behind him, and he twisted around, sighting down the length of the gun at the lean, wiry figure stepping out of the gloom. He wouldn't have recognised the man if he hadn't known it was Gregory Keane. His face made Dean think of a vase that had been shattered into pieces and badly pieced together. And he too looked terrified.

"Dean" he said. "It's _me_."

 _Damn it._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Sam backed into the large kitchen diner. There was a sour smell in the air, the counters littered with take out boxes. And tucked at the back of the counter, a large container of salt. As Sam reached for it, he felt a sudden stillness, and a cold so absolute it burned.

The air shifted and eddied around Sam. The light fitting in the ceiling vibrated, the sound like the buzzing of a thousand angry wasps.

He felt the itching sensation of eyes on his back, and glanced up. Jackson stood in the corridor, his eyes empty bloodied sockets.

A strange numbing sensation spread through Sam. Any urgency slipped away. _Maybe Gregory isn't the real danger we're facing here,_ he thought distantly. _Maybe we should be concentrating on killing Jackson instead._

Jackson charged, and the soporific effect vanished as fear spiked through him. Sam swore, jerking the shotgun up and firing. The spirit broke apart. Sam grabbed the salt, ran to line the doorway, knowing it would only be moments before the spirit was back. Minor spirits howled around him, too weak to manifest, but strong enough to pinch at him, vicious little nips that left half-moon welts on his exposed skin. The chairs at the kitchen table rattled, legs clattering on the tiled floor. Jackson was speeding back towards him with all the speed and force of a bullet train. Unstoppable.

He laid down the salt line, heart racing.

And a sudden gust of wind blew the salt back over his boots, the protective line obliterated.

 _Shit._

Around him the air went still. He heard a sound, a soft exhalation, like a gasping breath of terror, and his breath frosted on the air.

Slowly, Sam lifted his head.

Jackson was back.

He stood in the corridor, his empty eye sockets fixed on Sam with deadly intent. The air around him fizzed and crackled with static. Too late for the salt line. As Sam brought up the shotgun, Jackson twitched his chin, and it was as if powerful hands seized the barrel and jerked it up. It discharged uselessly into the ceiling. Sam fought against air that seemed thick as treacle, trying to bring the barrel back down, while Jackson advanced.

The shotgun was torn from his grasp completely. It clattered across the kitchen, came to rest by the kitchen table. Sam stumbled backwards, saw Jackson's lips peel back from his teeth in a rictus grimace of triumph as he stepped across the threshold.

Sam whirled, ran for the shotgun. Ducked too late as a chair flew at him. Its leg struck his temple. A searing blast of pain dizzied him, and then another chair collided with him, slamming into his head. He crashed to the ground, fought the rolling wave of darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. Then he lifted his head, saw the shotgun just out of reach.

 _Go._

He threw himself towards it. His numbed fingers scrabbled across the ice-rimed tiles for the shotgun. He'd almost got it when the table moved. Scraped across the floor with a sound like nails on a chalk board, then it sprang into the air and flipped over. Sam stared up at it, eyes widening. "Oh, shi–"

He flung his hands up to cover his face an instant before the table crashed down on top of him. All around the chairs clattered and stamped, sounding like applause. The table eased off him, only to slam back down, crushing him. Squeezing the breath from his lungs. The shrill buzzing rage and malice of the spirits filled his ears.

And without warning the weight was ripped away. The table crashed against the wall, leaving Sam gasping for air, spots on his vision like orbing spirits.

The room went suddenly still.

Jackson was watching.

 _The shotgun. Where's the fucking shotgun?_ He saw it, scrambled onto his knees towards it. His fingers nudged against the cold metal. He felt a rush of triumph and then it skittered out of his reach, as if someone had kicked it. Jackson inclined his head, and Sam was plucked off the ground and slammed back down on his back. Left winded yet again.

Damn, he was going to enjoy burning this bastard's bones. Assuming he got out of this alive.

He skidded across the floor, caught in the grip of an invisible giant. And then he was sliding up the wall, pinned so hard against it he had to struggle for every breath.

Jackson vanished and reappeared directly in front of him. The air pulsed in time with Sam's heartbeat.

And this close to the spirit Sam could sense something beneath the uncontrolled power, a kernel of rage and sorrow. Jackson knew what had been done to him. And if that was the case, then maybe he could stop this.

"Jackson, I'm sorry," Sam gasped. He had to force each word out through the choking pressure in his chest. The spirit tilted his head, seeming to listen, and Sam tried again. "I'm sorry we couldn't save you."

And there it was, a flicker of understanding in the spirit's face. He eased away, drawing his hand back from Sam's chest. Sam exhaled, able to breathe again. _Thank God._

"Emma needs our help," he said. "We–"

The spirit attacked without warning. Slammed Sam back against the wall, crushing him so that every joint threatened to pop from its socket. He plunged his hand into Sam's chest.

And a cold fist closed around his heart.

* * *

Dean's finger eased off the trigger. He glanced at Emma, who still looked terrified, and then forced his attention back to Gregory. He backed away, jerking the gun at Gregory, indicating for him to circle around, so he could see both of them at once. Gregory obeyed, his bloodied hands in the air. "Please don't shoot me, Dean," Gregory said, his eyes filled with tears. "The bastard's tricking you."

 _You knew you were going to kill her._

Emma spoke, her voice hard. "He's lying, Dean."

Dean swung the gun back to her, saw Gregory sag with relief in the corner of his eye. "Thank God," he said. Dean's finger tightened on the trigger. _This is him_ , he thought. _It has to be._

He met Emma's gaze over the sight of the gun, and the expression he saw in her eyes was not fear, but acceptance.

 _Son-of-a-bitch._

He jerked the gun back to Gregory, whose eyes widened in shock and fury.

And then Rafe slammed bodily into Dean. He fired, heard Emma screaming over the howls of the spirit, and above it all Gregory's frantic laughter.

A cold grip seized his wrist. Pain wrenched up his arm as Rafe tore the gun from his grasp, and slammed Dean back against the wall, all nails and teeth and spitting fury. The spirit froze, his eyes wild. Gregory stooped to pick up the gun, gave a breathy little chuckle. He was gripping something tight in his hand. An amulet, Dean guessed.

"Jeez, that was close, huh? I almost had you there though."

"You're a dead man," Dean promised him.

Gregory grinned. Gave a nod.

And Rafe began to ease his fingers into Dean's chest. His eyes lingered on Dean's face like he didn't quite know what he was doing. Just like a virgin giving her first blow-job, and Christ, that really wasn't an image he wanted to associate with dying. He felt a cold sensation in his chest, choking, helpless terror. And was it his imagination or could he hear the howls of Hellhounds in the distance?

 _Not fair,_ he wanted to scream. _I've got three months left, damn it._

Emma slammed a poker down on Gregory's shoulders. But her strength had gone; she was too weak to do any real damage. Gregory swung towards her, slamming the butt of the gun into the side of her head. She spun around, striking her head on the table.

Rafe's grip on Dean's heart eased. The spirit bared his teeth in fury, and then he was gone. Dean gasped, fighting against the aching pain in his chest. Saw Gregory waver on his feet, aiming the gun at Emma.

Dean charged towards Gregory, knocked him to the ground. The air crackled, spirits coalescing all around him, as he shattered the bastard's nose with a punch. Icy hands grabbed at him. Before the spirits could drag him backwards, he wrenched the amulet from Gregory's grasp.

The man screamed. Made a grab for it as the bulb exploded. Dean felt hot burning little kisses of broken glass against his skin. And the room was thick with spirits, chief amongst them Jackson and Rafe. Gregory howled, scrambling on his hands and knees for the poker, but Emma kicked it out of reach. Dean snatched it up, backed away as Gregory screamed, "Help me!"

Without thinking, Dean grabbed Emma's arm. "Come on, we gotta–"

She jolted at his touch, her eyes rolling up in her skull. And then she collapsed.

"Oh, for the love of..."

Dean slung her over his shoulder, swinging the poker at the few spirits who charged at him. Most of them surrounded Gregory, who kept screaming, begging Dean for help. And Dean hesitated, met the man's wide terrified eyes through the swarming mass of spirits. Saw the claw marks on his face, how the spirits were wrenched his body back and forth.

"You bastard!" Gregory howled. "Don't leave me!"

And Rafe turned towards Dean.

Dean ran for the stairs. Behind him Gregory was shrieking, the sound ripped from his throat. A wild frantic keening sound of agony and terror, like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a fox.

Dean carried Emma up the stairs. More spirits, unable to take part in the feeding frenzy, surged up after them. And just as he reached the doorway, something grabbed him, and he knew he was going to fall, going to plunge back down into the slaughterhouse below.

Sam appeared in the doorway, battered and bloody but otherwise alive. He aimed the shotgun through the doorway and blasted the spirit who'd grabbed hold of Dean. Then he reached over the threshold, grabbed his shirt and hauled him out.

As Dean laid Emma none too gently on the floor, Sam poured a salt line across the threshold and jerked the door closed.

"I told you, Sam," Dean managed. "Never trust a helpful ghost."

Sam choked out a breathless laugh, then he glanced at Emma. Dean sagged against the wall, watched Sam shrug off his jacket and drape it over her. Told himself that the ache in his heart was the result of the fucking ghost.

She coughed, and when she opened her eyes it wasn't Sam she looked at, but Dean.

"You were totally going to shoot me, you son-of-a-bitch," she croaked.

Dean slid down the wall and thought about the howling of the hounds. "Yeah," he admitted. "I was."

She started to laugh, then trailed off. Started to cry instead.

Down in the cellar the screams continued as the ghosts ripped Gregory to shreds. They made it last.

* * *

When the noises in the cellar had fallen into a horrible silence, Dean ventured back down the rickety wooden staircase. He left Sam and Emma huddled together as close as they could without actually touching. What was left of Gregory Keane was smeared over the dirt floor and the walls, gleaming blackly. Amongst the gore, he saw a few lumps of unidentifiable meat. And in the middle of it all was the spirit of Rafe Demarquez sitting cross-legged next to his corpse. He lifted his head and stared at Dean, his expression hostile. Dean raised the shotgun, but the ghost didn't move.

"When you hurt her, man," Rafe said, "I'm going to do to you what we did to that bastard." He nodded to the bloody mess on the floor.

"I didn't shoot her," Dean said. "Emma's okay." _Bleeding, freaked out, but okay._

"Emma doesn't get things wrong, dumbass." And the spirit gave a cold empty grin. "You can salt and burn my bones, hunter, but you know that won't stop something like me. And when you hurt her, I'm going to rip you to shreds."

"Yeah?" Dean sighed, closed his eyes. "Well, get in line."

When he opened his eyes again, Rafe Demarquez was gone. Nothing else in the cellar, but a silent, staring corpse and the barely identifiable remains of a former psychic called Gregory Keane.

* * *

They salted and burned Rafe Demarquez's corpse, and what they could find of Gregory, as well as every scrap of the amulets Gregory had made. And then they went out to the car, where Emma was waiting. She'd dressed again, but still had Sam's jacket around her shoulders. She looked small and fragile, like a child wearing an adult's clothes, But she lifted her head as they got in the car, smiled at Dean. "I tried not to bleed on the back seat."

"Good," Dean said. And he spoke almost without thinking. "Because if you had, I would've had to kill you."

" _Dean_." Sam glared at him, then turned to Emma. "He's joking."

She grinned. "Yeah, I know."

"Kind of," Sam amended and she burst out laughing. Dean saw the look they shared, the way their eyes lingered on each other for a few moments before they both looked away. Sam turned back to the front, but Emma met Dean's gaze. She was still smiling, but her eyes were grave.

 _Emma doesn't get things wrong, dumbass._

She refused point-blank to go to hospital, so instead Sam treated her wounds back at the motel. And Dean tried not to watch the way his brother touched her, the way his gloved hands moved carefully over her skin.

They'd watch each other, but never both at the same time, each casting little glances at the other when they weren't watching. And Emma's hand tightened around a glass of vodka, her lips pressed together in a hard line.

And afterwards they dropped her off at her apartment, walked her up to the door.

"So what now?" she asked.

"Well, we gotta salt and burn Jackson's bones. He was one bad-ass spirit." Dean said, and Sam snorted, rubbing his chest.

"Yeah. We can't have something like that let loose on the world."

"The poor bastard," Emma murmured. "I just..." She sagged against the door, tightening Sam's jacket around her shoulders. Dean wondered if he should slip back to the car, give them some privacy, because this was the perfect moment for Sam to make his move. As he started to turn away, he saw Sam reach out to rest his hand on her shoulder. Emma flinched away, and an expression of hurt flashed across Sam's face. They looked at each other for a moment, a weary, 'yeah, this is never going to happen' look, and after a while Emma shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Sam. I got blood all over your jacket."

"Don't worry about it. You can keep it," Sam said. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm not sure." She drew in a breath. "I might call on Missouri Mosley. See if there's anything she can do to help me take control of this. Or at least... I don't know, channel it, I guess. Jackson told me there were options, but at the time I didn't want to listen. I don't think I could have saved anyone, but I'll always wonder, you know?"

Sam smiled. "You did save someone. You're alive, aren't you?"

 _Emma doesn't get things wrong, dumbass,_ Dean thought.

Her gaze shifted to Dean with a smile on her lips that didn't touch her eyes. "Right," she said. "I'd forgotten." She drew back into herself, her eyes shining with tears. "You take care of yourself, Sam."

"Yeah, you too." And they shared the most awkward attempt at a hug Dean had ever seen. As they started to turn away, she called after them. "Hey, Dean? Can I talk to you a minute?"

Sam glanced at him, then shrugged, carried on to the Impala. Dean turned back, eyeing her warily. "What?" he asked.

"Gregory said something to me back there. About demons existing. But–"

"He was right," Dean said, and saw something flicker in her eyes. Like the world she thought she knew had just been ripped away. It was a look he'd seen a fair few times before. "Demons, witches, vampires... all the stories you ever heard, they're pretty much all true."

"Jesus." She pressed a hand over her mouth. "I thought I had it all figured out, and now I feel like I've been wading around in the shallow end all my freaking life."

"Yeah, I know the feeling," he said.

And then she was looking at him again, something in her eyes. "What is it?" he asked.

"Something your brother said to me. About _An Appointment in Samarra_. It's an old fable about running from death. Only he got it wrong. He thought it was about standing and facing your fate, but it isn't. It means 'not yet'."

"You still think I'm going to kill you," Dean said quietly.

"No." And her eyes were still and calm. "I _know_ you are."

"Well, it's gotta be soon, because I'll be dead in three months time."

She gave a nod as if she'd known it all along. He guessed she probably had. "How?"

He drew a breath, remembering the howls of the Hellhounds. How close he'd come to death, to having these last few precious months snatched away from him. "Deal with a crossroads demon. Hellhounds are gonna drag me to hell."

She exhaled sharply, leant against the wall, her face pale and horrified. Anger bunched in him like a fist. He didn't want pity. "I made my decision," he said. "Now I gotta live with it. And believe me, I plan to gank as many monsters as I can before I go, but you're not one of them, Emma."

She didn't reply, just kept staring at him. Deep in his heart, Dean felt a treacherous spark of hope. "Do you think..." He swallowed. "Do you think there's a way I can beat this?" And damn, he hated that note of desperation he could hear in his voice. Desperation and fear, because the sight of the blood in the cellar, and the sounds Gregory had made as he was torn to pieces by furious spirits still burned in his memory.

He was willing to bet that even that was nothing compared to what was waiting for him in hell.

Emma's eyes were sad. "I don't know how to explain it, Dean, but no matter what Sam says about using visions to change things, that's not how it works. Not for me, anyway. You're going to kill me. Maybe it's in three months time, and maybe not, but..." She shrugged.

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "Don't be. I've been running too long. I'm just happy I've made it this far." She laughed weakly. "It was pretty close in that cellar, right?"

"I wasn't going to shoot you. I just wanted that bastard to think I was."

"Uh huh." She flashed him a smile that transformed her face, and just for a moment he could see what Sam was attracted to. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Whatever." He glanced back at Sam waiting in the car, watching them. "Take care of yourself, Emma. And don't take this the wrong way, but I hope to God I never see you again."

She gave a soft laugh. "Same here."

He turned to go. Then hesitated, turning back, thinking, _Don't. Don't ask it._ "Emma, would you do me a favour?"

"Sure. Name it."

He gestured to the car. "After we're done burning Jackson's bones, we're headed south. Could you..." He hesitated, forced himself on. "If you're gonna to leave town, could you go the other way? Find somewhere to hide out? Just for a couple of months. Just until... Until it's over."

 _Until I'm in hell_ , he thought. The spark of hope caught light, began to burn brighter. The first time he'd felt anything close to hope since he placed the box in the ground at the crossroads, and smoothed the earth back over it.

Emma nodded. He flashed her an uncertain smile. "It could work, right?" he said.

"Fate's a bitch, Dean. You don't want to mess with her. But yeah, maybe it could."

He hugged her, careful not to touch her skin. She smelled like Sam, and underneath the lingering scent of sweat and blood, and he tried to forget he was using her death as leverage for his own release from hell.

He pulled away, headed back to the Impala with her eyes on his back, wishing he could extinguish the spark of hope inside his chest.

Because the truth was he was screwed. No stupid little trickery with fate was going to change that. He was going to hell and he was going to burn, whether Emma lived or not.

He didn't have a prayer.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, I would be thrilled if you left a review.**


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